My Childhood Experience



Please bare with me on this. This is quite a cathartic experience. I don't talk about my mum. I probably need to. Sometimes people who have known me for ages, stumble upon the fact that she is dead. I don't offer the information. One thing for friends reading: I'm not writing this so that we can talk about it. I don't wish the subject to be brought up. Period. I don't want sympathy. Maybe some will understand me more. This will pretty much be one of the only times I have talked about her illness without being drunk.


Growing up, I never felt that my mum was ever truly happy.
She was homesick. Missed her family, and friends, not her birthplace, England. Maybe the same will be for me. My self-fulfilling prophecy.

I remember my mum having strange episodes when I was as young as 10yrs old (or around there). I remember trying to get her to sign a sick note because I had been off from school ill at home the day before. She forgot how to sign her name. My brother and I became frustrated with her, wondering why she couldn't do something so simple.

I used her memory lapse to my favour in future times, convincing her that she was signing for my being sick, when I wasn't. Convincing her because she literally couldn't remember.

I remember her losing her handbag practically everyday. We would search for it. I was angry she had lost it again. Looking back, maybe I was actually scared. Did other mothers have problems like this?

We found her hand bag in the washing machine. Among other strange places.

She used to get names mixed up, getting stuck to remember mine and David's (my brother) name, sometimes calling us each others name.

Dad was never home. He worked two jobs from 6am in the morning until 9pm at night. Until recently, I didn't realise how much David and I covered up from him, not telling him the problems we were having with mum.

I heard stories recently from neighbours. They had previously kept them from us. One day, they found mum, frantic on their doorstep, saying that a strange man was in the house and she didn't know what to do. Turned out it was Dad.

I pretty much have blanked a lot of what happened. The forgotten names and faces; my intolerant reactions to such obvious problems. Guess I wanted to believe that this was just a case of a bad memory. When I found out it was early-onset Alzheimer's, my first question was, 'how is it treated'.

Alas no treatment.

There are certain times that, when I think back to them, bring me to tears. Some just make me feel sick. I arrived home from school one day, walked in the back door, and mum started screaming at me. She was demanding that I left the house. She didn't recognize me. She was afraid of me. I was afraid for her. I was deeply affected. She eventually calmed down. She eventually realised who I was.

People with Alzheimer's start to lose their short term memory first. Long term memory stays with them for a while. That's why bilingual sufferers always revert back to their mother tongue. Although mum wasn't bilingual, she did revert back to experiences from her years growing up in England.

When studying for the HSC, I would wake up, get mum up, get her in the shower, wash her urine soaked bed down, wash her, sit her down to breakfast, and go to school. She would sometimes fight me in the shower. Sometimes she would look at me in despair, and I would see a glimmer of fear in her eyes. A look that asked, 'What is happening to me?'David and I kind of shared the burden. I cant really remember it...exactly. I just know that I was guilt ridden by my reaction to it. Resenting my mother for being sick. Resenting my father for not showing her love in the years leading up to her illness. Hating myself for not being the dutiful daughter.

She eventually was admitted to a nursing home. The day they took her, she knew something was wrong. Nursing home staff were there, convincing her she was going on holiday. She looked at me with resentment as if I was the culprit. I resented my neighbour, Jenny for being there. Taking over the situation, explaining to mum that it was just a short trip. Inside I was screaming..'fucking-well butt out bitch....This is something you should not be a part of'.
I felt guilt because I wanted mum to go, while my heart ached for the wonderful woman she had been. The sickly ache in my chest was almost too much.I didn't want to face it anymore. I didn't want her to forget me. Didn't want her to look at me with contempt. Wanted to feel normal. Maybe I will never feel quite normal.

The years that followed would find the lapse in time between my visits growing longer. I would leave it for months between visits. This was fairly heart wrenching for me as the longer I left it, the more obvious the deterioration. Forgetting to walk. Forgetting to chew. Eyes that only showed recognition of who I was in mere fleeting moments. Eventually, eyes which never showed recognition.

I think I have denied so much about it, that I am unable to remember what happened and what it was like. To this day, I will start to remember mum, and feel a little sick, because remembering her means remembering her illness. I cant seem to divorce the two.

We got the call that she had taken a turn for the worse. My father, David and I rushed to the home. We stood around her bed as her laboured breathing slowly came to a halt. Her final breath was a long sigh. It was over. I felt guilt, relief, pain. Lots of pain. I felt like a fraud. How could I mourn her death? I had hardly visited her in her final years. I'm sure David felt the same.
I was studying nursing at the time. I had an assignment due in that week. The day she died, I went to my university lecturer to ask for an extension. She gave me 2 weeks. I failed that semester, and hence the whole year. I failed 5 out of 9 subjects. I did not return to nursing.

I was unable to accept people's sympathy. Didn't want them to ask me how I felt. Didn't want them to hug me. Didn't want to talk about it. After all, this was no big surprise. We knew she was going to die. I tried not to cry, but to no avail. I did though, keep it to a minimum......in public.

My experiences have seemed to shape my future relationships. I seem to put up an independent front. I am afraid that if I come to rely on people, then if they leave, I will experience the same feelings of loss I have felt from the loss of my mother. I would love to place my trust in someone. To let them shelter me. Alas, this scares me so much.

I will opt to do things by myself. Afterall, I started looking after myself from the tender age of around 14yrs I think.

Mum was a very jovial character. Always smiling. Or so I'm told. I resent the fact that I never got the chance to have an adult relationship with her. Have girly chats. Get her approval/disapproval on boyfriend's. Go for coffee. To say sorry for not being the helpful daughter she had expected. I think we would have been great friends. We would have been almost best friends. She could have told me childhood stories. She could have been proud of me for my achievements.

Losing a parent when young is a hard thing to deal with. I'm beginning to realise that watching a parent die slowly without dignity is even worse.